


a debt worth drinking to

by orbitalknight



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: 0.5 seconds of Edmont de Fortemps, Canon Compliant, Inspirational Speeches, M/M, Pre-Canon, alcohol reference, canon compliant swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:28:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25160887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orbitalknight/pseuds/orbitalknight
Summary: Ser Estinien Wyrmblood is cordially invited to the Congregation of Our Knights Most Heavenly for the celebration of the installment of a new Lord Commander.
Relationships: Aymeric de Borel/Estinien Wyrmblood
Comments: 2
Kudos: 42





	a debt worth drinking to

**Author's Note:**

> this fic is a near-direct sequel to an official ffxiv short story, and while you can read it on its own i highly recommend you first take a look here: https://na.finalfantasyxiv.com/lodestone/special/2015/short_stories/#sidestory_01

The Fury take these damn politicians. Estinien was going to the banquet in his armor. 

In all his years training for the position of Azure Dragoon – the grueling early-morning drills, the nightmares, all he’d endured to be chosen by the Eye – he’d never once been informed that his official appointment to the position would come with non-military responsibilities. _Or that he’d have to go to any godsdamned parties._ Maybe he’d assumed it based upon Alberic’s relative unsociability, or hoped the High Houses and the Temple Knights would have simply observed the fact that Estinien had not an onze of interest in aught but his lance and letting it drink another round of wyrm’s blood. 

There hadn’t been a great deal of ceremony for when he had become the Azure Dragoon, most likely because of the high fatality rate the station entailed. There was no point in hosting a grand banquet every few moons, not when the dead still lingered ‘round the lances. The celebration was modestly observed at the Congregation of His Knights Most Heavenly, overseen by Alberic and the previous commander of the Temple Knights. Estinien had been made aware that a far more raucous after-party had been held at the Forgotten Knight afterward, but he had declined attendance. Alberic had chided him for it, but they celebrated privately the following evening. Adoptive father like adoptive son, men of arms had few words for one another. But there had been hot chocolate, in all its fancifulness, not quite as warm as the pride that Alberic expressed. 

“They’re calling you the second coming of Haldrath, you know,” Alberic’s expression had been level, but his eyes betrayed the feelings beneath. 

Estinien could recall but one portrait of the first Azure Dragoon where the man was not in armor, so he tucked his hair beneath his helm and crossed the stones of Saint Valeroyant’s Forum, leaving a melody tapped out behind him with each step in his sabatons. It was well enough he act the part. 

The occasion on this particular evening was the installation of a new Lord Commander of the Temple Knights. Given the Knights worked in concert with the dragoons and some few who started in the order of the Knights became elite dragon hunters, Estinien had been invited to attend the event. And there was the small matter of his personal acquaintance with the man who was being honored with the position. 

Though even having read it on the invitation, Estinien could not be pressed to remember his name. 

Even though this banquet was being held in the same place, the interior of the Congregation looked entirely different. The long table in the lower hall had been cleared off and dressed in a gilded cloth, while the upper floor provided additional seating at two slightly less decorated tables. The lamps had all been freshly oiled and the board where assignments and maps were usually posted wheeled away. Someone had even swept the floors, which seemed excessive, given the traffic through the wooden double-doors that would doubtless proceed throughout the evening’s festivities. 

The first to greet Estinien upon his entrance was none other than Alberic, who was in his dress armor. The man might even have brushed his hair a little. 

He clapped a hand upon the armor of Estinien’s shoulder. “You’ve deigned to favor us with your presence, I see!” After a pause, “I did tell you there was a suggested code of dress, didn’t I?”

Estinien shrugged. “They called for the Azure Dragoon. I scarce see a reason to deny them.” 

“Putting in the effort to make your face known would be worthwhile, Estinien. There are lords in attendance tonight.” 

“If they know me as aught but the man who slew Nidhogg, then I will have already failed, _Ser_ Alberic.” 

Before Alberic had a chance to roll his eyes or insist Estinien mind his manners, the two were interrupted by the purposeful crossing of another across the room to greet them. The face was immediately familiar. Ink-black hair that curled around the corners of a well-formed jawline, beneath two pointed Elezen ears. Eyes of ice-blue, blessed with long lashes. An easy smile graced his lips, though it was certainly practiced. 

“Ser Alberic, Ser Estinien,” the man gave a polite nod to each of them in kind, “I am honored by your company this evening. Please, do not feel the need to chill yourselves by the door.” He gestured towards the interior of the Congregation. 

“The man of the hour, I presume?” As the party shuffled its way inside, Alberic extended a hand to be shaken, and it was with all proper ceremony. “Estinien has spoken highly of you.” 

The man turned a pleasantly bemused smile in Estinien’s direction. “Is that so?” 

“I’ll let him tell you about it.” Alberic nodded cordially at Estinien, who could have impaled him, and then gave a half-bow before turning towards the stairs that led to the upper level of the Congregation. 

Estinien did not have much time to seethe before the other man spoke. “I presume you still owe me that drink, then? That helm does not cover so much as you may think.” 

“Aye, it seems that I do,” Estinien folded his arms, “Though not all are as gifted with insight as you, Ser...?” 

“Aymeric. I fear I may tire of hearing it ere the evening is over.” 

Estinien followed his gaze back out towards the door, where an ever-increasing number of lords seemed to have gathered, exchanging the usual empty pleasantries. The former Lord Commander and the eldest knight of the Heaven’s Ward were locked in conversation near the head of the long table. When he cast his glance to the upper level it seemed as though Alberic had organized the rank and file of the Temple Knights who were also in attendance, along with some of the more venerable dragoons. Since it seemed the food and drink had not yet arrived, Estinien still yet had time to decide which table to join. The feeling persisted that he did not quite belong at either. 

He turned back to the man still at his side. “Should you not be attending to your rounds, Ser Aymeric? I fear I make poor company.” 

A laugh danced across Aymeric’s features. “‘Tis not so, Estinien, though you have the right of my obligations. In fact...” Dread as cold as a Coerthan winter fell upon Estinien in the pause, “Might I trouble you to join me?” 

It was exactly as Estinien had feared. He tried to speak without gritting his teeth. “Is that aught but a suggestion, or an order from the Lord Commander?” 

Aymeric’s eyebrows lifted. “Would you refuse me outright were it the former?” 

“I would.” 

Aymeric nodded. “Very well. While I appreciate your honesty, consider it an order.” 

Estinien fought down the growl that rose in his throat, managing to choke out a “Shall we?” through gritted teeth. He made the vaguest of gestures towards the lord’s table. 

A smile curled at the corner of Aymeric’s lips. “Indeed.” He set off towards the growing congregation of well-attired men, leaving Estinien to follow behind at a calculated distance.

Estinien had no interest in the conversations of the highborn. He was watching Aymeric. It was a belief shared by many of the dragoons that the truest judgment of a man’s character could be formed only by a shared experience in battle. Politics were their own battlefield, and Estinien’s experience fighting with Aymeric, though it had been some time, lent it itself to some curiosity as to how his acquaintance would dance with beasts of fewer scales. 

Aymeric’s manner seemed decidedly less warm than the minutes earlier he’d been speaking to Estinien and Alberic. He was a picture of refined practicality, completely dissimilar to the groveling apologies Estinien had seen delivered by young knights to their highborn superiors. It was not so much the play of a snow wolf pup, belly exposed in a plea for mercy, as the guarded stance of a wyvern appraising the strength of an interloper on his territory. Estinien had little doubt that Aymeric had done his share of rolling over. Even so, the tension in the dark-haired Elezen’s shoulders seemed to undermine his projection of confidence. 

Estinien was pulled out of his observations by a gesture from Aymeric. “...We are even more fortunate to count an Azure Dragoon of exceptional talent among our generation.” 

The man with whom Aymeric was conversing seemed somewhat familiar, but Estinien had no interest in laboring to put a name to the face. He noted instead the wooden cane the man carried, trying to discern if it was for fashion or function. 

“‘Tis ever been my opinion that a man gains more from his time spent as a knight than the same hours and years around a table of lords.” The man smiled, putting a hand on Aymeric’s shoulder. “I’ve a son your age, you know. It does much for my spirit to see the Temple Knights in experienced hands rather than more familiar ones, though my peers may disagree.”

“You flatter me overmuch, Lord Fortemps.” Aymeric demurred, but it was plain enough that the compliment had struck true. 

Estinien had to admit he did not know enough about the politics of the High Houses to unravel the entirety of what the nobleman had said. Something about the words still brought a crease to his brow, obscured as it was beneath the Drachen helm. 

There had been no undercurrent of hostility in Aymeric’s conversation with the cane-carrying man, but Estinien noticed something of that nature in each of the conversations that followed. The lords of House Hallienarte and Durendaire were cordial enough, but each seemed to size up Aymeric in a way that did not so much seem to be taking the measure of a respected equal as the inspection one might make of a black chocobo by one who remained unconvinced that horsebirds could fly. They paid Estinien little mind unless Aymeric brought him up in conversation, which was fine by the Azure Dragoon. He’d no interest in politics, and even if he had, none of the etiquette to match Aymeric’s steps. Estinien did, however, have half a mind to complain in advance regarding the ache in his jaw which he would no doubt have in the morning as a consequence of so much time spent gritting his teeth. 

The lord of house Dzemael greeted Aymeric with a smile that Estinien found more akin to dragon than man, all teeth and seeking weaknesses. “Ah, Ser Aymeric de Borel. ‘Tis ever a pleasure to at last make your acquaintance.” 

“Yours as well, Lord Dzemael.” Aymeric extended a hand, and the man’s smile twisted into an expression that was impossible to misinterpret. Disgust. He did not return the formality. 

Estinien half-consciously clenched and unclenched his fists, more alert than he’d been the past several exchanges. 

Lord Dzemael made minimal effort to readjust his fallen mask of friendliness but nonetheless turned his toothy gaze back to meet Aymeric’s. “Tell me, which one of those old fools put you up to this? Hallienarte, no doubt.” 

Aymeric’s tone was level. “I am afraid I do not grasp your meaning, Lord Dzemael.” 

The man toyed idly with the wispy excuse for a mustache that adorned his upper lip. “Hallienarte, I suppose. Hoping to reclaim some dignity. ‘Twould be nice for them to have their own little pawn on the seat of the Lord Commander.” 

“Beyond my professional responsibilities, I’ve no personal affiliation with any of the High Houses.” These words did not seem new as Aymeric spoke them, but nor were they rehearsed. 

The nobleman scoffed. “As though a bastard brat could ever achieve such a position without the aid of a High House. 'Meritorious service' is naught but pretty words on paper!” 

“Tell me, Lord Dzemael,” Estinien placed himself at Aymeric’s shoulder, arms folded, “What meritorious service have you yourself performed?” 

“Well,” Lord Dzemael straightened his coat, “That _is_ what knights are for, no? I’ve the Proving Grounds to look after.” 

Estinien made no attempt to conceal his scowl. “Aye, you do stink of the horsebirds.” 

Lord Dzemael sniffed himself surreptitiously. “I am afraid you are mistaken, Ser Dragoon.”

“That I am not,” Estinien stepped forward, looming over the nobleman with what height he had by his own merit and the horns of his helm, “Though perhaps it is not the chocobo shite you reek of so much as your own.” 

Though Estinien was sure the man had been thoroughly intimidated already, Lord Dzemael puffed himself up like an indignant dodo. “ _Excuse me?”_

Estinien lunged forward, grabbing the collar of the man’s shirt and hoisting him into the air by a small margin. “You’d not last half an hour against the smallest dragonet, and yet this man you so accuse of highborn charity has slain wyrms the like of which would turn your sorry arse to cinders in a matter of seconds. When next you put an arrow through a dragon’s eye, I shall gladly provide further instruction as to _where you may stick it_.” 

He released the nobleman’s collar, and the man skittered away like a kicked paissa. “You’ve no right to speak to a man of my standing in such a brutish manner! I’ll see you disciplined for it!” 

To Estinien the words sounded more akin to a yipping lapdog than a meaningful declaration of consequences. But a sound of boots pounding down the stairs from the upper level seemed to speak to the contrary. 

Alberic spun him around by a shoulder. “Estinien! What in the Fury’s name did you do?” 

Estinien couldn’t help the grin upon his lips. “Forgive a former farm boy for being ignorant to the finer points of Ishgard’s politics.” 

Before Alberic had the chance to debate Estinien on _the finer points of threatening nobles_ , a man in armor that distinguished him as a member of the Heaven’s Ward approached the two of them. His face was creased with age and no shortage of experience.

“Ah, Ser Vaindreau–” Alberic started, but the man waved a hand to cut him off.

“Forgive me, Ser Alberic,” he addressed Estinien directly, “Ser Estinien, I must ask that you leave the premises, or else be further reprimanded for your actions against Lord Dzemael.” 

Aymeric cut in, physically, stepping between Estinien and the man of the Heaven’s Ward. “No. ‘Twas a conflict instigated on my behalf. If he must go, then so too shall I.” 

Ser Vaindreau shook his head. “You know as well as I that shows of self-sacrifice are rare to please the High Houses, Aymeric. I would not advise this path.” 

Aymeric pondered the words briefly. “I understand, Ser Vaindreau.” He looked over his shoulder at Estinien. “Shall we see about that drink, Ser Estinien? With me.” 

***

Estinien could not rightly remember the last time he’d actually set foot inside the Forgotten Knight, but somehow he had the distinct impression it had not changed in the slightest. There was little lighting to speak of inside, obscuring the difference between night and day, though it likely mattered little to the regular patrons of the tavern. Aymeric sighed as the door closed behind them, and Estinien could see the shift in his shoulders. Aymeric wasn’t relaxed, not by a malm, but he’d shifted his stance more comfortably for the change of scenery. Estinien motioned him down the stairs and past the upper-level seating to the bar proper, taking a seat at one of the counterside stools. He crossed one leg over the other and after a brief hesitation removed his helmet, setting it down on the stained wood in front of him. 

The barkeep made a motion at the helm. “Got a prettier face than me, that one.” 

Estinien untangled a lock of white hair from his armor. “Aye, I prefer it to mine own. Though I daresay my company has all three of us outmatched for looks.” 

Aymeric settled into the seat beside Estinien. “Is aught amiss?”

The barkeep shook his head. “Not a thing, ‘cept that it’s been far too long since I’ve seen that face at the Knight, Aymeric de Borel.” 

Aymeric smiled, blue eyes drifting towards the floor. “That it has, Ser Gibrillont. I can make little excuse other than that what time I have for myself has become rather limited in quantity.” 

“I’ve heard enough to know the truth of that, lad. Now, if you don’t mind my asking, isn’t there some event the Lord Commander and Azure Dragoon,” Gibrillont gave each of them a pointed look, “Should rightly be attending this evening?” 

Leave it to a tavern keeper to know his names and faces, not to mention the news. Estinien was about to offer comment, but Aymeric cut him off before his mouth was half open. “Indeed. We have chosen to abscond from the rest of the festivities due to... an interpersonal disagreement.” 

Gibrillont cocked an eyebrow. “That so? Well, we’ve rules against those here, if that’s any comfort. Can’t say the food’s better than what you might’ve been enjoyin’ had you stayed, though.” 

“If I may be honest, I’d forgotten entirely about the meal,” Aymeric gave a sardonic smile, “I was far more concerned with the speech I was meant to give beforehand. Ah, well. ‘Tis but words in the wind.” 

“The audience might not be as grand or as pretty, but if you’ve a mind to give that speech of yours,” Gibrillont made a sweeping motion, “An audience you’ll have.”

“I’d not call myself overfond of speeches,” Estinien said, “But ‘tis ever a shame to make such effort for naught. You’ll find better ears here than on those lords heads, I’d wager.” 

Aymeric looked back and forth between Gibrillont and Estinien, mouth slightly agape in an expression of surprise. He took a moment to collect himself, drawing in a breath and letting it go slowly. “You are right. If you’ll have me, then speak I shall.”

Gibrillont lifted a glass and spoon from behind the counter, banging one on the other until what idle conversation occupied the air of the Forgotten Knight fell softly into silence. He motioned to Aymeric, who stood up from his stool and crossed to the center of the tavern’s middle floor. 

“Esteemed gentlemen of the High Houses and venerated knights of the Congregation,” Aymeric began his remarks with a sweeping gesture to those few scattered around the tavern interior and was met with a whoop of approval from one visibly inebriated party, “I stand before you not as your newly appointed Lord Commander, though such an appointment has brought us together, but as a citizen of Ishgard. It is my belief that when one stands upon a threshold of newfound responsibility, they should endeavor to first embrace humility, lest we forget our sworn duty to our fellow man with whom we share so much in common. It is keeping in mind this humility that we must also remember: Ishgard is not the sum of her commanders, but of her people. Our war rages ever on, and it is only by the blades of our brothers and the shields of our sisters that we may march forward. It is my solemn duty and honor to take up the mantle of Lord Commander, that I may endeavor to lead us forward through the dragonfire to a tomorrow that is worthy of those who have walked before.” 

If Aymeric had delivered his speech at the Congregation as he had intended to, Estinien imagined the applause to be restrained and polite, but not dissimilar to the sound of someone dropping several spoons for the number of attendees in armor. At the Forgotten Knight the sound was more akin to lances falling over, likely because some had in the commotion after the speech had drawn to its close. While Gibrillont had merely clapped the side of the glass he’d been cleaning, the drunken man who had been so pleased with the beginning of Aymeric’s speech had dragged his friends at the table they occupied into giving a standing ovation that was in the process of escalating into a brawl. A few of the other tavern clientele had pounded their pints on the tables or grunted approval. Estinien’s gaze swept the room until landing again on Aymeric, who seemed to have lost his facade of eloquence now that the words were out of his mouth. He was smiling something genuine, and Estinien found his own lips mirroring the motion. 

The noise died down some minutes after Aymeric reclaimed his seat next to Estinien at the bar, every so often fielding a compliment from a patron who happened to pass by the two when they took their leave. 

“I should thank you.” Aymeric turned to Estinien. 

“Oh, so you’ll pay for your own drink?” Estinien leaned an elbow on the bar, “I did naught but have us removed from an event in _your_ honor.” 

Aymeric chuckled. “Yet again you do a disservice to the pleasure that is your company.” 

Estinien’s eyes went wide. He made a sound somewhere in the back of his throat that barely counted for an acknowledgment of what had been spoken. 

“That said, should you prefer to use one debt to cancel another, I would not object. However, I do believe I owe you more in gratitude than you do for a passing failure of memory.” Aymeric’s voice had gone quieter, acquiring a tone that Estinien could not quite read. “‘Tis not so often as you may think that I find myself among those who would so readily defend my character.” 

“To all seven hells with the bloody High Houses,” Estinien spat out the words with all the bad taste they carried, “You earned your post more than any of their pompous progeny. They wouldn’t know the sharp end of a lance from the butt if you shoved it down their well-bred throats.” 

Aymeric laughed at that, color returning to his voice. “Well, let us hope you shall never have to demonstrate the fact.”

“Consider it a standing invitation, Lord Commander.” 

“If you use my title as an excuse to forget my name again, you’ll owe me more than a drink.”

Estinien shrugged, making no effort to conceal he may have been considering doing precisely that. “Hmph. Very well... Ser Aymeric.” 

**Author's Note:**

> well, i spent most of quarantine falling in love with elezen men, so it's honestly pretty shocking it took me this long to put a fic out for the game that has occupied some 400-odd hours of my time recently. 
> 
> i wanted to write a little pre-canon something-something from the beginning, and the impressive style of the short stories really only cemented that desire. i see now why estinien has three whole stories to himself. he is an absolute delight to write!
> 
> no promises for more content of these two, though i have become rather endeared to the dynamic and would love to try my hand at writing through the eyes of the lord commander. the next ffxiv content you'll see from me is either a little wol/npc collection, or something based on one of the shadowbringers stories...
> 
> as always, comments and kudos are greatly appreciated!


End file.
